The more moral American foreign policy, the more chaotic the world became.
There was no salutation, no mention of a name, simply a 'Begin.'
Jason was used to the abruptness. In fact, he had long suspected he was speaking to a voice mechanically generated to make electronic identification impossible should the conversation somehow be recorded. Machine or person, he had no idea with whom he was speaking, only that the voice was always the same.
'Reference'-Jason held the written pages up to the light-'document echo-tango-four-zero-two. Question: The bodies found all had traces of silica and ethylene in the lungs, though in quantities that should not have been fatal. Couldn't that have come from natural surroundings?'
Pause.
'Unlikely with silica on the Bering Sea incident. Possible in Georgia, but the soil had low silica content. Unless there were a sandstorm. There was no record of a sandstorm in the area.'
Only a machine would exclude that possibility, given the locales. No, knowing the CIA…
Jason ran his eye down the page. 'I note sulfates at almost uniform levels in all the victims' lungs, too. Isn't it unusual that persons with different-size lungs would have almost identical amounts?'
'Very.'
Not exactly helpful. 'Any explanation?'
'As stated, tissue studies show nitrogen also, as well as trace carbon. As in some sort of smoke inhalation.'
'Smoke from what?'
'Unknown. Subsequent photographs of the ship and logging camp depict some sort of brush or scrub as the only flora nearby. One in a pot, the other beside the bunk- house. None of it appears to have burned.'
'Then what did the smoke come from?'
'Good question.'
Jason thought for a moment. 'Let's go back to the silica. That's a common element in rocks as well as sand, right?'
'Right.'
'Any chance they breathed silica in the smoke?'
'Only if a rock was burning. Not likely.'
'Okay,' Jason went on, 'any idea why they would be gassed at all? I mean, shooting would have been a lot more efficient.'
'We don't know. That, Mr. Peters, is why we hired your company.'
Jason thought for a moment. 'Anything else that's surfaced since the report was written?'
Pause.
'There were traces of radiation. Very low rads, but ascertainable. Also some evidence of hydrocarbons in the blood, and ethylene.'
Jason paused, trying to pry loose a distant memory. 'Ethylene is an anaesthetic, isn't it?' 'Was. Its use was discontinued in the sixties.' Jason stood, idly glancing around his hotel room. 'Don't suppose you have any explanation for the presence of the hydrocarbons, either.'
'You are correct.'
Swell.
Jason was dealing with a form of anaesthesia mixed with what amounted to sand, one or both radioactive, origins and purpose unknown. The agency needed a geo- or biochemist, not a spy. 'You've been a big help.'
Pause.
'Always pleasure, Mr. Peters.'
Was that a trace of mechanized sarcasm?
Chapter Twelve
The National Mall, Washington, D.C.
The next morning
Shortly after sunrise, Jason had dropped by the Crystal City hotel to check on Pangloss. That had been a mistake. The big mixed-breed managed such a pitiful look from behind the bars of his kennel that Jason let him out and watched as the dog streaked for the backseat of the rental car Jason had just retrieved. What the hell? Jason rationalized. They both would be leaving Washington today, anyway.
The question was, for where?
At the moment, Jason was one of a number of people walking their dogs on the grassy mall in full view of the capital building. Restrained by an unaccustomed leash, Pangloss made a halfhearted lunge for a tourist-fattened squirrel, an effort Jason saw as more instinctive than motivated. Tail flicking indignantly, the intended prey unleashed a string of chattering rebuke while head-down on the trunk of a bare oak tree.
Jason gave the leash a tug, 'Come on, Pangloss. You wouldn't know what to do with him if you caught him.'
By now man and dog were in front of the original Smithsonian building, the redbrick Victorian pile that for years had housed the basis of the collection that now occupied most of the mall. Across the lawn was an unimposing structure, neither particularly modern nor classical. Its best architectural feature was that it was not of the type so common in Washington, a style Jason referred to as 'Federal Massive.'
Jason checked his watch and slowly walked over, watching the parade of joggers, dogwalkers, and bureaucrats scurrying to standard-issue desks in buildings that were visually indistinguishable from one another. Stopping as though to make certain where he was, Jason appeared to read the words above the entrance that informed him he was entering the National Museum of Natural History.
No one in sight paid him any attention.
He pushed his way through a revolving door and came face-to-face with a man in the uniform of the Smithsonian's security service. His name tag labeled him as W. Smith. Had Jason been asked, he would have guessed W. Smith had recently shaken Jim Beam's hand. Red-rimmed lids were puffy, almost closed over piglike eyes. He winced at any sound as though magnified, and hands were shoved into pockets, perhaps to conceal shaking.
'You can't bring the dog inside,' the man said sternly.
The man's breath confirmed Jason's suspicions. He hoped W. Smith would stay away from open flames.
Jason glanced around furtively, a man not wanting to be noticed, although the foyer was devoid of tourists. 'It's okay, Officer. This is a bomb-sniffing dog.'
The man with the badge seemed little less assured. 'Bomb?'
Jason shook his head, lowering his voice. 'Nothing to worry about; just a practice run.'
The guard glared at Pangloss. 'Nobody said nothin' to me 'bout any dog, bomb-sniffin' or otherwise.'
Jason managed a look of surprise. 'Really?' He nodded toward a telephone hanging on the wall beside the door. 'Why not give Dr. Kamito a call, tell him Jason Peters is here with the dog.'
With one suspicious eye on the tail-wagging Pangloss, W. Smith punched in a three-digit number and grunted into, the phone before turning to face Jason. 'He says you know the way and for you and the dog to come on up.'
It was clear W. Smith did not approve as man and dog walked across the entrance hall to a single elevator. If ever Pangloss were to break house-training, Jason thought, Lord, let it be now.
Prayers unanswered, Jason stepped into a long hall at the top of the building. He and the dog drew curious stares but no comments from people in white lab coats bent over microscopes, chipping at rocks, or working in a huge chemistry lab.
Unknown to most, the CIA was one of the largest contributors to the Smithsonian, particularly its natural history and aerospace subsidiaries. In return for its generosity, the agency had access to a number of the museum's scientifically oriented staff on a consulting basis.
For example, who better than a seismologist to predict, as far as predictions were possible, an upheaval of the earth's surface likely to disrupt or distract an uncooperative government for a few days? Even less known, for
